


Summons

by loadedcasserole



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: I find robot religion to be fascinating stuff people, No pairings - Freeform, Robots Being Spiritual, Summoning, lost light spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2020-10-14 19:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loadedcasserole/pseuds/loadedcasserole
Summary: The Matrix was trying to do something, they just didn't know what. That is, until they summoned someone into their midst.-The demon summoning trope has been inverted into something else.





	1. Chapter 1

The melodious tones of a choir filled the air.

It was an old hymn, chosen for its simplicity and popularity, as most of its singers didn’t have any formal training. That didn’t take away from the inherent beauty behind it. Indeed, Optimus' spark all but swelled at the sound. Instead, it was Prowl’s chatter that broke up the ambiance.

“-is causing a delay, so we’re stuck babysitting for who knows how long. Which puts us even further behind, and our reserves-”

It had been a long time since Optimus had the honor, or the time, to attend a similar gathering. He savored the moment. The last had been a funeral, and that was a shame. He would wager that at least half the bots here today had not had the opportunity to attend, even a modest service such as this, in their lives. Some of it was due to lack of opportunity, but much was because of general disinterest. Even though Optimus carried the Matrix, the war hadn’t lent itself to fostering a strong belief in a higher power. Most leaned more toward superstition for the divine than true belief. He could hardly blame them. Too many atrocities.

Rather than following him out of religious belief, many did so because they felt it morally right. Some may disagree, but he thought it was better that way.

Nonetheless, he thought today's event would boost the morale of the more pious bots and serve as a distraction to the rest. They had all been here for ages, in conditions that were less than ideal. Despite the dwindling supply of time he had, Optimus was more than happy to assist with Wheeljack’s experiment.

Wheeljack signalled at him from behind his flashing terminal. It was nearly time.

Optimus pulled out his datapad to find a suitable text. He had most of the contents memorized, but the action gave him something to do with his servos.

“-very least, we get to see what they have been working on that much sooner-  _ Optimus, _ what do you have there? I thought you were giving a prayer.” Prowl looked at him with alarm.

“Wheeljack and I thought we could try some scripture to warm up.”

Yesterday, while greeting some terribly excited new arrivals, one of Wheeljack’s devices had started beeping incessantly.

A mech had asked for a blessing on behalf of his injured partner, and with time to spare, Optimus didn’t disappoint. Even though it had been far from the first time he had performed such a task, Wheeljack was convinced that it had set off his device and that there was something going on with the Matrix. The Matrix had done some miraculous things, but Optimus was reserved on what Wheeljack was excited about. Which led them here, with a seventeen bot choir and more incense than had any right to exist.

“ . . . Is it going to be Solomus’ Choice again?” Prowl asked.

“It  _ was. _ ” It had always been his favorite, and it had a lot of versatility.

“Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just remind you that you’ve said it for every formal gathering for the past vorn and the public is getting tired.”

“You’re not the public, Prowl.”

“I didn’t say I was. Notice that I said  _ the public _ . If I hated it that much, I would tell you so.”

Wheeljack waved his hand to get Optimus’ attention. The choir had hit a quieter point and was slowly coming to a close. It was the perfect time to begin.

Optimus started by welcoming everyone and quickly settled in to recite scripture. Most were not particularly engaged, but they were respectful and were nonetheless enjoying the novelty of a Prime-led ceremony. Half of them had their optics on Wheeljack. Most bots here only knew him by reputation alone and were curious about what he was up to, as well as to gauge his reactions. It was a smart decision. Optimus himself always had a sensor on the inventor. If Wheeljack suddenly moved to duck, then Optimus was going to follow suit.

It wasn't unlikely. Wheeljack was not entirely in his element. He was more familiar with the more concrete side of science than something as abstract, and even downright mystical, properties of the Matrix, but he was eager to find out more.

“I hate it,” Prowl whispered behind him. It was carefully audible enough to only reach Optimus. He ignored him, but leapt to another story at the next best moment.

The lights on Wheeljack’s terminal pulsed with color. Were they getting faster? He thought they might be and hoped that it was a good sign.  Before long, he moved onto a very general prayer that called for the blessing and power and guiding presence of Primus and-

A flash of light encompassed the room. A wave a heat and energy, radiating from the Matrix, spread throughout his frame and left as quickly as it arrived.

Optimus’ optics struggled to recalibrate. Had there been a sound, he would have thought an explosion had happened, but instead a hush settled over the room. His sight cleared. Soon, he saw that in the center, between himself, Wheeljack, and the choir—sat an orange bot.

Optimus didn’t recognize him, but he wore the Autobot badge and looked just as bewildered as Optimus was feeling.

Had he . . . ran during the flash and fell?

Optimus looked to Wheeljack for an update, but the mech had hardly paused and was too busy bustling about and looking at his readouts.

He was closest and walked to the mech to offer him a hand up. A glance over his shoulder revealed that they were not the only ones gathering their bearings. Some bots had fallen in surprise, and there were some that cautiously peeked around equipment they had used for cover.

A servo met his and Optimus pulled the smaller bot up with ease. The mech gave him thanks, but Optimus didn’t let go. He was, instead, very distracted by the steady pulse in his chassis and how unusually warm his servo was becoming.

“I am Optimus Prime. I do not think we have met.”

A hand reached up to adjust their optics- no, glasses. “We have. Once. Your first rebuild ? I was- well, nevermind. I’m Rung, good to meet you. What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” It  _ was _ something though. Optimus didn’t get where he was by ignoring the Matrix, and he very much thought it was trying to do or convey something. “Did you just arrive yesterday?”

“Yes, I’m just here for a little while until the next shuttle comes in.”

“Better prepare yourself for longer. I have been told that there has been a delay with the transports.”

Wheeljack suddenly came over and circled them with a heavy looking instrument. “Hmm.” He passed the device over Rung twice. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine?”

“No pressure in your chassis? Dented plates? Curdled energon in your lines?”

Rung rubbed at his arm, as though to check. “No.”

Optimus tried to peek at Wheeljack’s instrument, but the scientist shooed him away. He probably wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway. “Why would he not be alright?”

“Because he’s teleported.” Wheeljack sounded uncharacteristically disappointed. Optimus knew that Wheeljack had thought that the Matrix might be attempting star creation or matter manipulation, but teleportation was no small feat. It was wonderful! At least in his opinion. “Where were you before?” Wheeljack asked.

Rung pointed to the right. “Over there, by the monitor.”

“So you’ve discovered another form of teleportation.” Prowl said dryly. “Can you get someone that’s not in walking distance?”

Wheeljack looked up at him. “I dunno. What do you think, Optimus? Think you can bring us Swoop? Or hey, how about let’s try for Soundwave. Megatron would flip.”

“I would think it best to try one of our own.” Optimus said. They would need a lot of preparations to deal with a Decepticon of that caliber. “Any idea on what has caused it? I have done all this before and nothing like this has happened.”

“Could be the location, or maybe the date is significant. We won’t know until we try it a couple of different ways.”

Optimus nodded, “Only for a cycle more.”

Wheeljack set back to work and the choir began again. They did everything the same way to duplicate the results, only to strangely fail. Changing things up came to a similarly disappointing outcome. Wheeljack was getting increasingly flustered and half the crowd had left out of boredom, including Prowl who, like Optimus, had a schedule to keep. Finally, Optimus had to call the experiment to a close.

“It could be that there’s a limit to it. Do you feel tired? Fatigued?” Wheeljack poked at him, as though testing some idea that Optimus was not privy to.

“No.” In fact, he was feeling rather energized today.

Wheeljack shrugged in defeat. “Think you can stop by when you’re finished?” he asked.

Optimus thought to all the meetings and planning and reports he had to do once he returned. “Not right away, but soon.” It would be interesting to see if anything more would come of it. Prowl was right in that a teleporter wasn’t new technology, but those had limitations and a personal one would be indispensable.

Wheeljack nodded distractedly. “I’ll see what I can figure out in the meantime. Where did that one bot run off to? I’d like to analyze him more.”

Optimus scanned the crowd in surprise. The mech had gone. He had completely forgotten about the product of their discovery. Optimus rubbed two of his digits together in thought. “I believe his name was-” he searched for a moment, “-Rung. He arrived yesterday.”

He left to attend to his tasks. The day comprised itself of planning and arguing and mind-numbing, bureaucratic tasks. He had also spent the better part of the time retrieving an injured scouting party, only to return to Prowl’s scowling face and the knowledge that he had missed an important call for trading with a neighboring system. It had not gone terribly. Prowl was credited for that, but Optimus had formed an idea during his outing, and missing the opportunity to present it bothered him.

He would have to see what could be done about it tomorrow. Optimus bypassed his office, with its toppling stack of reports, and went straight for his habsuite. He tripped onto his berth and embraced it like an old friend. He was gone in an instant.

~|~

Rung briefly rubbed at his hand and entered the barracks quietly, conscientious of others who may be resting. It was a useless gesture. Everyone was awake.

“Uh, sorry pal, we’re full,” said a bot sitting on a berth. Rung’s berth.

Rung looked pointedly to the red mech across the room. Crux had been there with him when he had laid claim, surely he could have said something. Crux smacked his helm. “Oh, oh! Sorry, I- I thought- I dunno- I-”

He crossed the room and collected his belongings, next to the berth, with practiced ease. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last time this happened. “It’s alright. I’ll see what else is available.”

After receiving many more apologies, he left. Really, he should have known better than to explore the base and just pasted his skid plates to the slab. He just felt so cramped in barracks.

He checked to see if there were any more openings. There were none. He exvented in annoyance. The facility wasn’t built to accommodate this many bots. As he walked, he passed by many other similarly displaced mechs. If there was a good thing about it, it was that a recharge cable wasn’t strictly necessary for him. It was merely efficient and more restful for some. Let other mechs have the berths, he would be happy enough being off the ground.

He passed by several who had surrendered and could be spotted tucked away in corners. Some had taken to resting in community areas or closets. At one point he walked in on a particularly cozy looking pile of bots and had to resist the urge to join them. They might look content right now, but they would constantly awake each other during the night. Best move on.

He thought a chair sounded nice.

A flash of inspiration hit him.

Rung hunted the premises for the right bot and found a lounging mech behind a desk. “Hello?”

The mech bolted upright. Rung had likely interrupted his entertainment feed. “Yes! Hey. How- What can I do for you?”

“I was curious if there were any empty offices available. I’m only here temporarily, but I’d like to avoid a lapse in my practice.” It was true enough. He had intended to do this tomorrow anyway, what with the revelation that he’d be around for a while longer. There were a few patients that had travelled here with him, who had appointments he wanted to keep, and he could use the opportunity to check in on a few familiar mechs he hadn’t seen in centuries. If he got a comfy chair in the process, then that was a plus then, wasn’t it?

The mech lazily pulled nearer to his terminal and sluggishly poked at the keyboard. He input some basic information from Rung. “What’s your occupation?” he asked.

“Psychiatry.”

His visor brightened. “Oh. Hey, maybe you can tell me why my ex is crazy. So, listen-”

Rung did. He shifted from pede to pede, deeply uncomfortable from his long day. He had thought that the bot would regale him with small tales of minor slights or misunderstandings. Maybe end it with some generalization that all fliers were head-cases. He was wrong.

Rung pulled out his datapad and tapped away.

“-and then, hey, are you listening?”

“Yes.” Rung reached over and grabbed the mech’s servo, clasping it tightly. His ex  _ was _ crazy. “I’m sending a report to command. I’m sorry, but I can’t sit on this if there are lives at stake, and it sounds like that fuel site is primed to blow and every second counts. You need to visit your commanding officer right this moment to give a formal statement.”

The mech’s lights dimmed in shock and he tried to assuage Rung with a slew of dismissals (“He wouldn’t do that! He wouldn’t!”), but Rung wasn’t having it and had to help bustle the poor mech to his equally slack-jawed commander.

He didn’t get an office that night.

~|~

He found himself in a white plane.

It had no hue whatsoever, and the ground and sky blended flawlessly.

There was the sensation of a floor, or perhaps it was only imagination and he was simply going through the motions, he wasn’t sure.

He had been in this place before, but it was rare and never during recharge. He  _ was _ recharging, wasn’t he? Optimus struggled to think of what he had been doing beforehand, but thought that entering his habsuite had been his last action.

He folded his legs under him and sat. There wasn’t much to do here, but it was peaceful and he did enjoy the quiet, and the weight. There was something heavy in the air that enveloped him. It was a kind of presence, he thought. Similar to how he would awake in the medibay without his sensors online, but was somehow aware that Ratchet or his staff was near. He did not know exactly what or who the source was, or if it was another possible imagining, but Optimus had an inkling of what it could be.

It was an idea that brought him great comfort.

It was just as he was beginning to feel unburdened that there was a quiet noise from afar. A creak. The groan of metal, he thought.

That was different. He paused, and expanded his senses. Enough time passed to make him wonder if he had misheard it.

Another sound. More faint.

Curious. Optimus had not had any such stimulation here before. He rose and turned to its direction.

As he walked, the sound grew and became clearer. He was closer, but there was nothing on the horizon. He looked above and below for good measure, useless though he knew it was. It wasn’t like he could possibly miss anything here.

He continued, but not much farther. Before him grew an expanse of color—bright and large and orange and six feet from his face.

Optimus halted before he ran right into it. Well. This was something.

He craned his head. It was a wall and it continued in all directions, looking entirely like it went on forever. He found it staggering. It was easy to forget how much depth the area had around him when he had nothing to measure it with.

Optimus noted the odd angles that jutted out and dipped into its form. Perhaps not a wall then. Not a well designed one anyway.

Something behind him tripped his sensors.

He turned and dashed to the side, running alongside the great structure. There was another wall headed straight for him! This one blue. Optimus didn’t know how real danger was here, but he wasn’t willing to get crushed just to find out. By a slim margin, he leapt out of the way and slid to safety. A massive click and hum sounded when it reached the orange barrier, and he experienced a wild moment of elation and satisfaction.

He had been in much more dire straits, but Optimus was very happy to be in one piece.

Curious. There was nothing behind the blue wall, driving its motion. It had simply moved into position as if drawn to it. He eyed it from a safe distance. It had a repeating, fractal shape and small metal borders inside of a larger one. Optimus thought it looked a little like a honeycombed window. Not a functional one, but one painted blue and made to look like it had highlights.

Could it be an art piece? Why was something like this here?

Optimus stuck his hand out to the metal and rapped at it. It was solid and unspectacular.

A sound, or maybe a song, filled his audials. A question formed. An inquiry. He was confused.

This could be a vision, he thought. It was more abstract than what he was used to, but maybe he didn’t have the context for it yet. He walked farther down its side, in search of answers, taking note of any new designs in the hope that it would illuminate something. There were but more of the windows. It was a mockup of a building, he decided. “What does it mean?” he asked, and was deeply surprised to find that he knew the answer.

It didn’t mean much. It was simply fun. Satisfying. Of interest.

He nodded, as though it made perfect sense, when really it didn’t at all, and he did a mental doubletake. What-

A jolt of energy raced through his chassis and he was back in his room. He blinked at the myriad of alerts spanning across his HUD. If anyone else had seen them, they would say that they looked very alarming, but for Optimus, it was just part of his morning. He idly reorganized the alerts into something more manageable as he thought back to his dream-vision.

Very strange. He would have to make time for meditation after he dealt with why Ironhide was banging on his door.

~|~

Rung had just received his energon ration and was ignoring the ruckus in the mess when he suddenly wasn’t.

He wobbled and stared at his empty palm forlornly. It wasn’t a huge inconvenience, he had some in his compartment, but it was the principle of the matter.

“That-?”

“Hey- uh, Wheeljack?”

“Hm?” The scientist snapped his head around to look at him. “Hey! I’ve been looking for you!”

Rung took note of the tools and machinery sprawled out before him. He was in a cramped lab.

“Oh?” Rung’s arms fell uselessly to his sides and he observed the bots around him. Here, Wheeljack, Optimus Prime, and someone he thought might be the officer Jazz, were gathered. “Did I teleport again?”

He was once again subjected to several passes of Wheeljack’s instrument. He turned his head away to give the antennas plenty of clearance before they put out an optic. “Yeah, sorry. We were trying for someone else. Have you been up to anything unusual these past few days?”

“No.” Not unless recharging in a broken locker made the list. “I don’t think so.”

“Anything different this time around?”

“Different how?”

Wheeljack went over a few different scenarios with him. He was looking for inconsistencies with Rung's travel. He didn't get much. Rung had experienced instantaneous travel, just like he had the first time.

“Okay, well do me a favor and stand over there.” Wheeljack pointed to the wall. “I want to examine you after we’re done here.”

He moved easily. It’s not like he had much better to do anyway. Rung had managed to secure himself a small office this morning, but the office was a timeshare and he had to wait until it was empty to use it.

Optimus went back to his attempts at plucking another wayward bot from the universe. He was simply giving a prayer this time. Rung listened leisurely. The tone of Prime’s voice was pleasant to listen to. He was feeling warm.

He wondered if it was attraction or if the ventilation here was poor. If it was attraction, that might explain a little about his odd recharge.

Optimus wasn’t really his type, but Rung understood the appeal. He was a well structured mech with a voice and personality that was only rivaled by Thunderclash. There was a reason why bots with Primus apotheosis emulated not just his ideals, but his appearance, and the way he held himself. Optimus, to them, was a grand example of the cybertronian species and they sought to claim that as their own.

Rung would reserve judgement. It was too early to say how he really felt for a bot he had hardly met. He was probably just overthinking it. Optimus had a lot of reputation and sheer presence tied to him that was bound to stir up something, and wasn’t at all indicative of true attraction.

Now, if had more red and some color to his face . . . Hm.

“-and with the guide of Primus-”

The room sidestepped.

He shook his head to rid the disorientation. Having a brick of a device waved in front of his face didn’t help. “Who were you thinking of this time, Optimus?” Wheeljack asked.

“Ratchet.”

“Ooh, that’s a bad idea,” Jazz said beside him. “What if he’s in the middle of surgery?”

Optimus looked vaguely guilty. “He’s on medical leave.”

“What?! Since when? What for? He’s listed as active!” Jazz pulled out a datapad to fact check that information. Perhaps out of compulsion.

“Damaged rotator,” Optimus explained. “If he changes his status, then the system automatically locks him out of half the medibay.”

Wheeljack pitched in, “Which they wouldn’t have in the first place if he hadn’t tried sneaking in when he was last on leave!” They laughed, and laughed harder as Wheeljack recounted the event to Jazz. It took a while. Rung started to feel like the odd bot out and stepped out of the picture to return to his happy corner.

An arm twined with his. “Wait, hold up.” Wheeljack said, wiping fluid from his optics. “This is getting interesting. Let's try this again. Go ahead Optimus and we’ll see if I can hitch a ride."

Wheeljack led him back to the wall and took the opportunity to analyse him further. “Okay, so I think you might have a target painted on you that makes it easier for the Matrix to hone in on you. Any idea what it might be?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m just as stumped about this as you are.”

“Are you  _ sure? _ ”

Rung looked at him plainly. “I get the feeling you already know something.”

“I’m getting some weird readings from your spark. Has that always been a thing?”

“I don’t know. Weird how?”

Wheeljack looked over him slowly. “You’ve never had a deep spark scan before?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

It couldn't be that odd. Those away from the front-lines just didn't get the same rate of injury as those that were.

“How’s it weird?”

“Well, for starters, it’s putting out sub-space frequencies that I haven’t seen from a spark before, and it’s got energy that’s more in line with a point-one-percenter than a regular spark. Basically, it doesn’t match up with the spark-types in the data-base.”

Rung pulled a card from Wheeljack’s book. “Huh.” This was news to him.

“What’s your lift capacity?”

“Definitely not that high.”

“Hmm, you should look into some mods then.” Wheeljack was looking quite a bit on the gleeful side. “I can think of a few that would work well for you.”

He grimaced. “I’ve tried mods before. Small ones. They don’t take. Some kind of allergy or compatibility issues.” He was just stuck with his boring, old thumb-mic and sad alt-mode. With the news of today, he could probably lay to rest that little mystery of his life. His spark didn’t like change. Goodie.

“Frag. It’s probably your-”

Rung was standing before Optimus again. Without Wheeljack. He barely wobbled. At least he was getting better at maintaining his balance now.

Jazz leaned toward Optimus and poked him, “Hey, have you noticed that when-”

“Yes.”

The three shared some private discussion on the comlinks. He hoped they were about done with him. He was getting a helmache.

They weren’t done. They insisted on more ways to try things. Rung was asked to put various items in his subspace to see if they journeyed with him (they always did), to walk to the clear other side of the compound, to try to summon Optimus to himself (it didn’t work), and at one point he was covered in foil and pushed under a massive generator to see if they could block whatever signal the Matrix was picking up (he teleported anyway).

Rung was quickly finding that he didn’t care for being yanked about.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Wheeljack finally said. Rung looked up from the model ship he had began fiddling with. Wheeljack had given up examining Rung, and was finishing up his tests on Optimus. He looked to Rung. “It looks like your spark energy is dipping from all this anyway.”

That sounded alarming. “By how much?” Rung asked.

“Not too bad, but it  _ is _ noticeable. I think if you just get a good recharge in, you’ll be fine. Let me or the medibay know if you’re not.”

That might be hard to attain, but Rung nodded, grateful for the break.

“What is your assessment so far?” Optimus asked as he closed up his remaining panels.

“Not a whole lot more to say. I’ll keep looking into it. We don’t know yet how great of a distance can be covered, so we could try that at another time.”

Optimus nodded and the three devolved into idle chatter.

Rung exited without preamble. He had things to do. Not many things, but he'd do what he could. It was as he turned a corner, and caught the determined optics of another, that he realized he had a follower. He slowed and turned curiously.

“Would you mind if I walked you to your . . . ?” Optimus asked from behind him.

Rung let Optimus catch up as he struggled to think of a real destination. “ . . . the office, I suppose. If you’d like.” It should be empty by now, in any case.

Optimus was curious about him. That was reasonable. They were strung together with an unusual experience. He could also say that he was curious about Optimus too. Although in his case, it had nothing to do with the Matrix’s hook on his person, and more to do with how he wondered what Optimus was really like beyond the vidscreens and articles.

“What was it that you had back there, in the lab?”

Rung floundered, trying to think of what Optimus was referring to. He had expected a question relating to his occupation or history.  “You mean my starship? I like to build models of them.” It was not a typical thing that people noticed. Could . . . Optimus too be a hobbyist? “Do you ever make things?”

“I admire it. But no. Your craftsmanship there looked impressive.”

Oh. Rung never thought of himself as someone who looked for praise, but he appreciated the compliment to a greater degree than what was normal. He didn’t know if it was because of who he was receiving it from or because it had been so long since someone had brought it up. Probably the latter. His last batch of patients had been of the unruly sort and he hadn’t brought many of them out in the public eye for a long time. “Oh, thank you. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“May I see it?”

He stalled, surprised, but not for long. Rung yanked it out of his subspace and passed it over like it was on fire.

Optimus turned it over gently, with slow scrutiny. “This looks like the Ark-7.”

“It is. Supposed to be anyway. You have a good eye.”

“I have read a little on the topic.” Optimus passed it back to him. “Jazz tells me that you work in psychiatry.”

This was getting into more familiar territory now. “Yes, I assess the mental health of soldiers before and after missions, as well as assist interested bots in more general ways.” He smiled. “And as long as I’m here, you’re welcome to come by. Even if it’s to only look at my collection.” Rung thought that the transient nature of his stay would very well appeal to the more skittish bots, who were not interested in prolonged treatment.

They approached the office.

“I appreciate the invitation.” Optimus said. “I may find you soon, if Wheeljack does not insist I call you again. And I apologize for the disruption I have caused you.”

“Not at all. It’s been interesting.”

“Before I leave, could I ask you something personal?” Goodness, Optimus was so very formal.

“Of course. Would you like to step inside?” He waved to the door.

“Only for a moment.”

They crossed the threshold and turned on the lights. They flickered, and the room was illuminated minutely. Even though Rung could not have possibly known the state of the room before he entered it, he was embarrassed to find the mess inside. The last mech here looked like he threw a rager of a party.

Optimus didn’t even glance at the environment and got right into it. “Do you believe in Primus?”

He mulled the question over. Personal indeed. “Not in the way most do, no.” He could elaborate, but thought that doing so would close whatever avenues of thought Optimus was clearly considering.

“Yet you attended the service.”

“Yes, I was curious. There hasn’t been one like that in a long time. Do you? Believe, that is.” It seemed like a stupid question, with an obvious answer, but Rung had been surprised before, and it was no secret that being a Prime did not necessarily mean that one was wholly religious.

“Yes.” Optimus said simply. It could be the poor lighting, or the power of the Matrix amplifying the effect, but Rung found the blue of Optimus’ optics to be particularly striking. There was something powerful in such a simple statement. Something echoed in him. For a moment, Rung too completely believed. Optimus continued, "I do not for certain know when the next transports will come in, but should it take a while, should you stay, what would you try to accomplish?"

Here, so close to the front-lines? Not much. "More of what I already do—assist mechs that need a friendly audial, and whatever else comes up. I can fight, but I'm the furthest thing from a heavy hitter, you’ll find. What do you hope to accomplish here?" His attempt at turning the conversation back to Optimus was inelegant, but it was familiar. Rung found Optimus’ questions and interest to be novel, but it was strange territory and it made him feel like the scales were unfairly balanced. If he was talking to Optimus Prime, he didn’t think it should be about himself.

“More opportunity,” Optimus said. Vague. But Rung supposed that Optimus would be a walking security hazard if he was anything but tight lipped. “But I think that you might be able to contribute in surprising ways.”

“Oh?” What did he have in mind? Rung hoped it didn’t have to do with the teleportation thing. He didn’t personally see much use in it, unless Optimus planned to use him a blunt weapon.

Optimus smiled faintly, in a secretive sort of way. He didn’t give away his thoughts. “I will leave you to your work. I hope your stay is a good one.”  Optimus left, and the room seemed darker for it.

“Yes. And yours too . . .” Rung responded lamely with the final click of the door.

Hm.

He detached his scooter and walked to the closest chair to fall in it. Well. Interesting day.

Rung slid down so far that his aft touched the end of his seat and he could hardly see over his knees. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it felt right. He fished a datapad out and started a new document. The kind he hadn’t ever thought he’d get a chance to start.

**Name: Optimus Prime**

**Group-Affiliation: Autobot**

~|~

Optimus left Rung’s office and it was a mere moment later that Jazz appeared at his side.

Jazz chose an encrypted line. _So I’ve done a little more reading, and apparently that guy is the sole survivor of a bunch of destroyed ships and outposts._

Optimus didn’t like the sound of that, for multiple reasons.

_ . . . Saboteur? _

_ Maybe. Probably. _

_ He does not sound like a good one. He could have lived because of his spark. _

_ Could be. But I’ll tell ya, those crashes were phenomenally bad. You would have to be a Phase Sixer to walk out of there. _

_ If he was responsible, how would he go undiscovered for so long? _

Being the only bot standing was sloppy and was bound to turn heads.

_ Well, he’s been investigated for it, but they didn’t find anything on him besides what they describe as “The most depressing watch they’ve ever had.” The investigator, at the time, eventually dropped it and determined that no agent would be that bad. But all that doesn’t mean much if the investigator was rotten. _

_ Was he? _

_ I don’t know, he’s dead. _

Optimus sighed, disappointed.

_ What were you thinking about him anyway? You followed him for a reason. _

_ I had a vision about him. I think. And with the prayers—he is being sent to me for a reason. He is important. I am certain of that, I just did not think it would be in this way. _

_ Bummer. I’ll keep a close eye on him. We can work it to our advantage. _

_ Thank you, Jazz. I will consult with the Matrix to see if anything more can be uncovered. _

Jazz gave him a mock salute and disappeared into a passing crowd of bots.

Disappointing, Optimus thought again. The bot had struck him as earnest.


	2. Optimus Prime Is A Great Beta Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz has a very strong opinion on this new mech and can't wait to share it with him.

Three helms dipped together in the near-bursting crowd of the mess hall. It had reached capacity weeks ago, and had only become worse over time. Their voices raised to compete with the noise of laughter and shouts. A mech, seated two stools down, had his head turned, just so, to them in interest.

The largest, Render, gesticulated wildly. “It’s gotta be something important. A weapon that could knock out a Phase Sixer from miles away! At least, that’s what my buddy thinks, and he should know since he works-”

"He's not the most truthful you know. Last time he fought a minibot he made it sound like he took on Menasor."

Render leaned forward conspiratorially. "Well, I've seen Prowl come out of there twice and _ everytime _ , he looks downright jolly. Explain _ that _. But anyway, it would explain why there's all that building going on in the south sector. It's big, and I figure they need some place to-"

A hand tapped on his pauldron. “Excuse me.” Render jumped and swiveled around with wide optics. His fuel pump seized in his chassis.

There stood another mech, leaning frightfully close to his face. Render leaned back. The mech mimicked him, coming to a distance that wasn’t quite as bad as before, but was still incredibly personal.

The smaller bot whispered, “I don’t mean to be rude, but there are a lot of people here that nobody really knows. I don’t think you should be having this conversation here. Maybe not even at all.”

He searched the crowd around him nervously. Nobody seemed to be paying them any mind, but there were a lot of people to account for. His companions looked to him wordlessly. No doubt they were as startled as he was feeling.

“Um. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sure.”

"Thank you." The bot's hand hovered over his shoulder for a brief second, looking torn, but pulled away quickly. He disappeared into the crowd as abruptly as he appeared.

A voice patched through his coms. It was Jazz.

_ I didn't catch that. What did he say? _

Render shook out his hands, trying to get the feeling back into them. _ He said we should basically shut up. Was that the guy? _

_ . . . Yeah. Care to send me a video copy? _

_ Sure thing. _

_ \- _

Jazz analyzed data and correspondence from the peace of his office. Prowl had asked him to organize some better security measures for their shipments and it was much more pleasant if done at a desk. 

Music poured from a subwoofer behind him, filling the room with a light bass. 

He sorted through the information on his monitor. Most of it displayed shift schedules and blueprints, while the rest composed of today’s curiosity—their new psychiatrist.

Jazz didn't have to watch him. He had people dedicated to that sort of thing, who watched and analyzed with a live-feed, allowing them to respond faster to developing events. In fact, as he watched, he was simultaneously viewing the mech with someone already assigned to the task.

It was a little redundant, but the view did make for an interesting backdrop.

Checking in on persons of interest was an always relaxing, and frequently useful, habit. He could quickly catch up on their doings, and the scrutiny often led to discoveries that others missed. And honestly, Jazz just rested better when he stayed on top of things.

Currently, there wasn’t much to catch up on. The mech hadn’t gone to any areas he wasn’t authorized to go to, and didn’t busy himself with making dirty bombs, like Jazz had half-hoped to catch him at. From what he could gather, Rung generally kept to himself, even in the most crowded areas, and only met with Wheeljack on occasion. He amused himself with quiet pastimes and like most, spent his recharge in a plethora of places. All in all, it was a horribly dull watch. Most people could be found chatting with their friends or partaking in games on slow days, but not this bot. Jazz was beginning to understand why Rung’s usual observer sent him daily requests to be reassigned to scum-scrubbing.

Today, Rung's makeshift office was that same flavour of stillness. Earlier, the bot had placed a neatly-written sign next to the door, welcoming in new patients, but had yet to see any. Instead, the mech sighed and toyed with his model ships listlessly. There wasn’t any focus directed to them, glued and soldered only every few minutes, spending most of his time resting his head in a palm.

That was Jazz's fault. He had someone pull the sign down as soon as it went up. Primus knew that the whole of the Autobot force sorely needed psychiatric help, but Jazz had his reasons. As dull as it was, solitude was better for surveillance conditions. People did far more interesting things in their idle time, when they thought they were alone.

And . . . Jazz wasn't yet convinced that the bot should be given leave to treat vulnerable mechs.

He knew more than a little on the subject of minds himself. It was amazing the things you could do with just the right tone and combination of words. Extreme manipulation shouldn’t be beyond the mech’s knowledge or skillset. He was intelligent enough, if his written works were any indication. Jazz had reviewed the mech's publications and found them vast and very well thought out. In fact, Jazz had been very surprised to realize that, in the past, he had found some useful enough to recommend to new operatives. 

He had found that, in particular, the self-help books pertaining to stress and fear, to be very useful in figuring out how to facilitate it.

A soft thump of noise sounded from the monitor. It seemed like Rung was done with his fiddling and had laid his head down on the desk. One arm dangled to his side. The mech exvented in a soft sigh that was becoming very commonplace.

_ Bored? Sad? What a shame. _He thought icily.

The standard policy on spies and dissidents in Autobot ranks was to learn what they could and try to either turn them double, or supply them with the right bad intel for their own advantage.

After looking at the sizable rosters for the crashed ships and ravaged bases that Rung had been assigned to, Jazz was tempted to forget all that and just lock him away until someone forgot to feed him.

Most of those lost hadn't even been warrior class.

He turned his music up higher, willing the beat to shake the anger out of him until he was only left with cold intent.

If Rung was guilty, he was too high risk to let roam about. Unfortunately, Prowl disagreed and wanted to turn the situation to their favor. They were owed that much, Prowl had said, and their current base was far from an ideal location for chaos. Too many variables for a secret and successful operation.

It was a fair point, and about the only thing that kept Rung out of the brig. That, and a curious event that happened shortly after his arrival. The bot had helped uncover a plot to blow up a refinery simply by talking with a help-desk mech. It was an event that would have put anyone else in amazing graces, but Jazz was still sorting through what to think about it.

Someone could know what questions to ask if they had a hand in its inception. 

It was an alluring idea, but Jazz was having trouble finding the substance to it. There first needed to be a connection somewhere, but there wasn’t a discernible one. Rung had never gone near that outpost in all his life and wasn’t familiar to anyone there.

So Jazz was giving it a shot. So far, he didn't have any idea on whether or not Rung had an outside line to the Decepticons, he could be unaffiliated for all they knew, but Jazz would find out. So far, Rung hadn’t made an attempt at outside communication, despite the juicy bits of information he had been throwing the bot’s way. He was just getting started though. Jazz had audials open to every comm system and a few ideas that would spurr anyone to action.

On the monitor, Rung had finished with his silly display of listlessness and braced a hand against the desk to lift himself.

He didn't move.

The bot braced his other hand and strained for several long moments. Still, his head remained against the desk with a firm steadfastness that Jazz had only witnessed when Ironhide sat on top of smaller mechs.

Jazz threw his head back and laughed uproariously as he saw Rung's eyebrows shoot up in alarm. Some super-glue must have dribbled on the desk and the bot had stuck himself to it.

Jazz quickly did a search for the comm of the other observer.

_ Hey- hey- did you- are you _ seeing _ this right now? _

-

Rung later walked out of his office with a two pieces of twisted metal in hand. It used to be part of his face, but he had to violently part with it in order to pry himself loose. 

He touched his jaw lightly to reassure himself that more pieces weren’t in danger of falling loose. It twinged harshly, and some things seemed bent, but nothing else came free.

As the door closed, he turned to pull down his welcome sign. He noted that it had turned terribly crooked at some point. He threw it in his subspace irritably. No wonder he hadn't had any walk-ins. It looked incredibly unprofessional.

Rung winded his way down the halls, passing by crowds of people. They were noisy, but relatively calm. He hoped the transports would come soon. It wouldn't be long before tempers started to rise with the cramped conditions.

Thankfully, high-command seemed to have accounted for that and were doling out extra missions and patrols. They were even raising temporary shelter in nearby locations. It would help, but it would take time before things greatly improved.

Rung passed by a grate that led to a large ventilation shaft. The cover was lopsided and barely held with its one remaining screw. He peeked into it.

Empty.

It wouldn't be dignified, and it certainly wasn't allowed, but should he be hard pressed to find a better space for rest, he could wiggle in there. 

Perhaps his standards were slipping, but the tube looked downright cozy.

He pressed on. Before he knew it, he had arrived at the medbay. Rung walked into a waiting room with five other seated mechs. He filled out a short form on a datapad and sat in the corner. This was not how he wanted to spend the day, but he would deal with it. He was fortunate in that he wasn’t as bad off as some here.

Two of the bots looked downright miserable, but didn't have any visible indications on the reason why. One poor soul had his leg twisted horribly, but was chatting cheerfully with his friend. Then there was a mech fast asleep in his chair, telling Rung a lot about his expected wait time.

Maybe he should come back later. He was sore, and his problem couldn't be dealt with on his own, but Rung was, by far, doing much better than anyone else here.

He eyed the empty chairs around him.

_ Okay. _ He thought. _ If those fill up, then I'll leave. _

He waited.

Two bots were taken in for treatment. Three more walked in. The sleeping bot awoke and promptly purged in the bin next to Rung. He patted the mech's pauldron sympathetically.

Rung wished he knew more than basic first-aid. The amount of mechs here, and being short on his own patients, made him feel like he should be doing something else with his time.

The door opened again and everyone looked up, expecting to see another patient to accommodate for.

It wasn't a patient.

Rung's database helpfully identified the bot as the CMO, Ratchet. The picture on the database looked scores better than the image in front of him. Which said quite a bit as the database was notorious for doling out the most dirty, washed out images that always gave the impression that the subject was dead.

Ratchet didn't look like he knew the name of a recharge slab and held himself stiffly. Wasn’t he supposed to be on medical leave?

Ratchet leaned into the waiting room while holding up a digit to his mouth. They watched in silence. He looked over them with a sniper’s intensity. He carefully pointed to three of them. Rung included.

Ratchet motioned his hand for them to follow him out, and backtracked out the door.

The chosen mechs got up to follow. Rung softly called to the last one, "Hey. I don't think he's supposed to be doing this."

The mech raised an optic ridge like Rung was the stupidest mech on the planet. "No duh. Stay if you want. If my t-cog catches on another circuit I’m going to lose it."

Rung did a full body shudder and waited a full parsec before going after them. If Ratchet felt up for doing this, perhaps he could stand to answer a question or two.

He and the bot waited outside of, what he assumed to be, Ratchet's habsuite while the first was tended to. It wasn't for long. Rung had hardly made headway into a book he was writing before it was his turn to go.

Rung entered the threshold slowly. Ratchet shook out the tarp that laid on his berth, its purpose clear as a makeshift exam table. "Hello."

Ratchet grunted and gestured to the berth. "Up."

He levered himself above and allowed Ratchet to connect to his medical ports.

The medic nonchalantly grabbed his chin and a light passed over Rung. "Is this all?"

"Uh, yes."

"Do you have the pieces?"

Rung retrieved the parts from his subspace and handed them over.

Ratchet turned each part over and did some quick adjustments with the metal. His hands flew with deft movements that belied his great experience. Instruments came and went from the nearby table.

Rung took in the room with curiosity. He hadn't seen someone's room packed with this many things in a while. The area was a great mess of clutter. There were four tables, each one having an open space at the center to work with, but the perimeters were stacked with loose materials that threatened to spill on the clean territory. A table in the corner held a cache of sparkling t-cogs. Boxes of parts littered the floor, and empty hooks on the walls suggested that some attempt at organization had been made and ultimately abandoned.

There were a few personal items to be spotted, bursts of color in the sea of metal. A small, blue lamp sat in the corner, clearly made by an amateur. A set of worn drums rested against the wall. Three shelves were a catch-all of crystals, tins of wax, noise-makers, and various what-nots that would easily fit in even his own hand.

"I heard you were on medical leave. I take it you've been keeping busy."

He received a short noise. Not of affirmation or denial, just acknowledgement. Ratchet was clearly not in a chatty mood.

"Am I the last one today?"

Ratchet glanced at him. "Does it matter if you are?"

Rung shrugged. "I was just curious." He kicked his legs with an air of nonchalance. Ratchet seemed satisfied with that and continued his work. Rung noted that there wasn't a chair in the room- no wait, there it was on the floor. It was in two pieces and the feet were half disassembled.

Rung scooted down the berth a bit. "Would you like to sit down?" He may as well. There was ample room.

The medic looked to him strangely, then his optics widened as though he had grasped something unexpected. "Have you been talking to First Aid?"

Rung struggled to link the name to a face. Medical personnel perhaps? "I'm not familiar with him. Why?"

Ratchet turned an instrument much slower than he had previously been doing. He was either very focused or very distracted.

"Seems like something he would do," Ratchet finally said.

" . . . Talk to people?" Rung struggled to form a connection with whatever thoughts were lighting up in Ratchet's head.

"Mm. Asking a patient to find out what I'm up to."

"That's very roundabout. Why not just ask you?"

"Because it's my own business what I do."

"Ah." That illuminated both a little and nothing at all. There was a communication problem at hand. First Aid was either overstepping boundaries or Ratchet was entirely shutting down communication. "Have you told him how you feel?"

"Of course. He just thinks that if he's annoying enough about it, I'll crack." Ratchet twisted the metal harshly. Rung winced and hoped that the abuse wouldn't cause problems.

"Crack? What is the dispute over, if you don't mind me asking."

Ratchet bunched up his shoulders, one of them raised slower than the other. "He wants me out of the medbay."

"So you can get better?"

Ratchet didn't reply, suggesting that Rung was on the right track.

"He must care a lot about you, to do that, and if you'd think that he'd go as far as to get someone to check on you like this."

"Anyone else, maybe, but no, he thinks I'm an idiot."

"He's called you that?"

"Yes. And other things." At that, Ratchet shot a laugh at some hidden joke.

"People who care will sometimes lash out when they get frustrated. If that's the case at hand."

"Look, he cares, but not so much about me, as what I do. He thinks he could do better managing. Limiting me from the medbay is his way of testing my authority."

This was a complicated situation at hand. "Have you reported the behavior?"

"Sort of. They know about it anyway. He's not actually doing anything below board. The thing is, everyone mostly agrees with him. In keeping me out anyway."

"Are you . . . trying to prove yourself by bringing people here?"

Ratchet looked at him oddly and his hands lowered with surprise. "What? No. I just can't recharge unless I know the waiting room is low."

Oh. Well then. Ratchet had just demonstrated a classic example of the folly of leaping to conclusions.

"If they do find out though, they'll up the security and then I'll never get a moment's rest. Think you can keep it a secret?"

"Absolutely." 

"Good." Ratchet nodded, satisfied, and put away most of his tools.

He brought the nozzle of a hose to Rung's face. "See this? It's a pressure washer. Gotta make sure there's no filth in your components. If you keep your intake closed, you shouldn't get cleaning fluid in your belly. Tap my hand if that does happen. Or just slap me. Whichever is fine."

Rung wasn't quite sure, but he thought that this could be a tactic to keep him from talking. It was hard to tell since cleaning really was a part of any procedure. Happy coincidence maybe. He didn't fuss and sat out the wash in silence.

Ratchet wasn't feeling the same.

"Are you that mech Wheeljack was talking about? Teleport-guy?"

By the All-Spark, was that to be his new nickname? Well, he supposed it was a step-up from the usual selection.

Rung raised an eyebrow and sent a quick note of confirmation through their medical ports.

"Ah. Wheeljack mentioned something about taking a look at your spark. Said it was unusual. Care to stick around?"

He had barely seen Wheeljack the past few days, and not at all today. They had done just enough for quick baseline tests, things that had nothing at all to do with Optimus. Rung figured that his novelty was wearing out with the lack of leads and time. He wasn't complaining. Even though he liked the scientist just fine—Wheeljack could be quite personable—these things were not considered as a fun use of his day.

He passed on his assent to Ratchet none-the-less. Rung supposed he was mildly curious to see if Legendary CMO Ratchet could find anything interesting about him. And if not, it just might lay the matter to rest.

Ratchet started piecing him back together bit by bit. The medic turned his head this way and that for better angles. The leftover fluid from the wash helped to solidify connections with its mineral and nanite additives. Before Rung knew it, he was a whole mech again.

He touched his face. The sensation was painless, but moreover, it wasn't numb like he expected it to be. Amazing!

"Thank you!"

The medic just nodded and slid out a big device from under the berth. He buzzed about the room, connecting Rung to it.

"So I noticed your signature there. What's your profession?" Ratchet asked. 

He was referring to the data signature Rung had left during their unspoken exchange. Everyone had one, even for the most basic of communications, and Rung's denoted things such as his name and division. Rung was science class with a minor medical stamp that indicated some professional training.

"Psychiatry."

"That explains why I haven't seen you. Have you ever tried nursing?" 

Was he being recruited?

"A little. Usually just in an emergency capacity. My know-how barely reaches beyond first aid." Which had been useful for the rare times it was utilized when the war first began, but when people started getting unheard-of upgrades left and right, and the Autobots implemented their mandatory first aid training, it had become an unnoticeable feature.

"Never too late to learn more."

Definitely a hint to apply. "I'll think on it," he said. "I am short of patients of my own, but I don't expect that to be the case the longer I am here."

The equipment started to beep and Ratchet bent over to poke at buttons.

"I could refer a few people to you then, if you'd like."

"Oh, well yes then, if they are amenable to it. _ If _ . It’s quite important that they _ want _ to see me."

“Mm.” Ratchet stood and popped the connectors loose. "Yeah, you're definitely not a point-one-percenter. But your spark _ is _ unusual."

Unusual? Interesting choice of words.

"Have you seen it before?"

"I wouldn’t call it the exact same category, the outputs a little more robust, but it's very similar to someone else." Ratchet tapped on the glass guarding his spark-case. Rung jumped at the unexpected reverberation. "You know- sorry, didn't think you'd have sensation- you know, you should be wearing some extra armor for this."

Rung brushed at the glass momentarily, chasing away the phantom sensation. "It's fine. It's sturdier than it looks." He would hardly run about like this otherwise.

"Not really. You might get lucky, but it's not going to stop someone from shooting your spark out at the earliest opportunity."

"Well no. But I'm no more at risk with my spark than most are with their heads. Besides, any shot, anywhere, is a bad shot for me." He wasn't particularly hardy. With a plate over his spark, he might be saved from immediate death, but it could easily divert the ballast to another part of his body. Death would be slower, but not slow enough to allow a chance for decent medical attention. "I would need full-body armor to make a difference. Or a very large plate, but that would make me too top heavy." He had thought of this before.

"Consider painting it then. You probably won't see any action soon, unless, Primus forbid, we get raided, but two minutes with a paintbrush could save your life. It's unusual enough to catch the eye of sharpshooters, and you don't want that."

He couldn't hide the grimace from his face. Spark-light was a bright thing. The amount of paint needed for a decent mask made him itchy just thinking about it. 

He always thought that his spark-window had a positive effect on his patients. He had a few who even admitted that it made him seem more open and approachable, which was something that could make all the difference in a productive session. He doubted he would make much headway doing therapy for the Wreckers by resembling a tank. Open was good.

And . . . he just liked it. He occasionally received unwelcome comments about it, but it was him and he couldn't imagine being any other way.

"I'll consider it," he said softly. It was, after all, an entirely pragmatic suggestion.

And it wasn’t like it was permanent. He could strip the color off when he was in a better environment for it.

He and Ratchet wrapped things up. Ratchet appeared ready to give recharge a try, so Rung left him with a few general ideas if he had trouble again. As he exited, he passed by a red mech standing next to the doorway. He was staring at the floor with an intense expression.

As Rung approached the end of the hall, he gathered a few details. The mech was there to visit Ratchet, and they were very unwelcome if the shouting was any indication. “Ironhide! Can’t be _ bothered _ to stop by for an appointment, but you can come here in my _ personal _ time, while I’m on _ medical leave _?! What do you want you slime sucking-”

“I need to ask you somethin’.”

A door clicked shut.

He looked across a familiar white plane.

Oh good. It worked.

Last time, he had made the journey here in his recharge, but this time had required more work. It was a much more difficult thing to arrange than he had anticipated. He had been too busy scouring the land, assessing old bunkers for their condition and instead, had to wait for a moment of peace for some quiet introspection. His travel companions didn't know, or didn't care, how thin the shabby walls of their temporary shelters could be and it took requesting them to entirely leave his vicinity to make headway. Hopefully all that would allow him to follow the imagery to its natural conclusion.

He thought of the odd fixture that had been here last time. He wondered if he could find it again. It was so barren here, it was hard to imagine it had ever been otherwise.

Optimus took a step forward, then another. He chose a direction that he hoped was the same as before and walked for miles and miles without change. He journeyed on. He would do this all day, if he had to.

He didn’t know when it started, but he eventually came to realize that his vision was gradually growing dim, like he had left the outdoors and came inside to a well-lit, but still so much darker home. He blinked heavily. It didn’t help, but he wasn’t dismayed. The very opposite actually.

Soon, things darkened further, enough to contrast against the white and see that there was a boundary to it. A limitation. It was large, but it didn't effect all of his surroundings, as he had originally thought. The shadow deepened and stayed anchored below him, giving him, for the first time, the impression of a floor. He looked above.

There was nothing there.

Below, the shadow blinked out of existence. Before he could think to miss it, it then returned. 

It was a line. A thin rectangle. It switched in and out of view, again and again.

Very strange.

Optimus reached to the floor. It was smooth, as he expected. He crouched and simply observed for lack of a better idea.

He wasn’t left to his thoughts for long. The rectangle disappeared and another shape took its place. The view was warped since he was so close to it, but it was much more comprehensible, although no less mysterious.

It was a letter from their alphabet.

Many more followed in quick succession, forming long chains that grew and dissipated, only to be replaced with another chain. 

They were words, he realized, and they had a lot to say.

He watched raptly.

_ -no shortage of things you can do to distract- _

Letters flashed more rapidly.

_ -things one can do to to distract- _

It was writing. Someone was creating something as though it were some live or recorded project that repeatedly erased and edited every other word.

Optimus waited extensively to make sense of the content. Many more sentences passed by before he had a clue. 

It was about fueling and how people reacted during energon scarcity. Optimus briefly wondered if this was a way of being berated for the spotty energon supplies they sometimes suffered through. He would deserve it. But no. If this were a message from some divine properties of the Matrix, it surely wouldn't be so indecisive with word choices. 

This belonged to a person, just like that giant structure had been a match for a model ship that belonged to someone.

"Who is the writer?" he asked himself.

The writing paused. A hum filled the air.

Optimus was the writer.

He shook his head. Ridiculous. He hadn't dabbled in anything but treaties and reports for vorns. He did not make this.

He did have an idea on where to start looking though.

Optimus noted the text before him. It had come to a standstill.

_ No one thinks entirely rationally, and so how can you possibly expect to see__

He wondered if the project had been abandoned. Perhaps the writer was stuck.

“Any better.” Optimus suggested, half-mindedly.

Characters flew by once again. He was surprised to find that the writing had changed to fit his idea.

-_ and so how can you possibly expect to see any better from your fellows who- _

Optimus shot up and took a step back. He paced around the words as his thoughts rushed by.

That wasn’t a coincidence. He had relayed something to someone.

It was one thing if the writer was just a person, that he had the opportunity to observe, it was another if there was a line of communication between them. That wasn’t a good thing. He had relayed something vocally, but he was receiving something visual. He had no real idea on what the writer was experiencing and didn’t know what kind of potential this had for security leaks. Perhaps it could go the other way. Perhaps it couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t chance it. He wasn't apprised of every single confidential detail of the Autobots, but there were things he knew that could be catastrophic if they got out to the wrong people. He had an obligation to make sure that didn't happen. He had to treat this as he would an object of live ordnance.

Thankfully, the writer, from what he could tell, seemed oblivious to his presence. He should do what he could to keep it that way. Circumstances could change at any moment. He best not stick around to find out when or what they might be.

Optimus fled to where he came, all the while feeling a creeping sense of danger and frustration. He didn’t know exactly what he had been expecting, but he had hoped to find something more useful and less stress inducing than what he had received. For now, he was forced to settle and find out more in a realm where answers didn’t rely on mysticism to be found. From there, he could figure out the best course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Sup all?
> 
> I wasn't sure if I could whip out a plot for this crack-born fic, but I had an epiphany. Can't wait to shooow. 8D


End file.
